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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=389253" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Thirteenth Street Bus</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">god died...<br>nothing else unusual about the day.<br>the Thirteenth Street bus was late again, <br>people passed each other walking heads down.<br>when the bus finally arrived, <br>no one was there.<br>old Mr. Peterson and his crippled wife, <br>were nowhere to be seen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">three hours earlier...<br>an angry young man sat alone, <br>hugging his knees and shaking, <br>in an empty room neath a bare light bulb.<br>unable to focus or think, <br>peeling back the layers of hell...<br>consumed by the rage of need.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">old Mr. Peterson made the coffee, <br>and boiled water for oatmeal.<br>two creams and a sugar, <br>and he took a cup, <br>to his wife still lying in bed.<br>he felt the faint smile of the wrinkled face, <br>birds just outside the window were singing..<br>45 years, or maybe yesterday, <br>he didnt know or care anymore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the enraged young man<br>caught Mr. Peterson in the kitchen, <br>and cracked his skull with a lead pipe.<br>he rifled his pockets for what he could get, <br>and started slamming through drawers.<br>Mrs. Peterson hobbled in on her walker, <br>he stabbed her with a kitchen knife...<br>and left her dying on the floor, <br>as he pillaged the house....<br>the birds were silent as he ran.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">when the police burst through the door, <br>it was already too late.<br>his body hung in an empty closet, <br>while the radio blared in stark despair.<br>crumpled clothes in the corner, <br>a mattress unmade in the center of the room.<br>a food stamp card and a dirty needle, <br>an unopened letter from the unemployment office.<br>a lone picture on a stack of boxes, <br>taken three years earlier...<br>the young man in his military uniform, <br>the day he came home from Iraq.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">three funerals on the same day, <br>no one attended either.<br>a borrowed preacher in a coffee stained suit, <br>a few words and a worn out prayer.<br>it began to rain, and it was over, <br>three lives that never were.<br>three short paragraphs in the newspaper, <br>the county picked up the tab.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">god died...<br>or maybe we died, <br>passing behind blacked out windows.<br>standing behind indifferent curtains, <br>lips moving but never speaking.<br>the Thirteenth Street bus was on time that day, <br>but it didnt even bother to stop!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Eric+Cockrell">Eric Cockrell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=389253" data-title="The Thirteenth Street Bus de Eric Cockrell" data-description="god died...
nothing else unusual about the day.
the Thirteenth Street bus was late again, 
people passed each other walking heads down.
when the bus finally arrived, 
no one was there.
old Mr. Peterson and his crippled wife, 
were nowhere to be se..."></div>
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